The Bucklander
by Permilea
Summary: Sam learns that Bilbo is bringing a wild Brandybuck relative to stay with him.


**The Bucklander  
**Author: Permilea  
Rating: K  
Characters: Samwise, Bilbo, Hamfast, Frodo  
Category: General  
Status: Complete  
Summary: Sam learns that Bilbo is bringing a wild Brandybuck relative to stay with him.  
Disclaimer: Middle-earth and its denizens belong to the Tolkien Estate. No geese have been harmed in the writing of this fanfic.

_A/N: I have a note to credit this story idea to a shirebound plotbunny, but I can't track it down on the shirebunnies website nor on her livejournal, so it may actually be from someone else. The story summary is the germ of the idea._

_A very many thanks to Inkling, who made Sam giggle.  
_

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It was a clear day in September, not far from the first day of autumn, when Bilbo broke it to Sam that a lad from across the River, a Brandybuck, would be coming to live with him. The old hobbit was oddly hesitant. He called Sam into the smial and sat him down in the parlor in the armchair reserved for visits by the Mayor (which made Sam very nervous.) Then he stood braced against the wall, fiddling with a brass candlesnuffer left on the mantelpiece over the round fireplace. 

"Now I don't want you to think I'll stop teaching you your letters, Samwise," the old hobbit said abruptly. "Frodo's a good lad, and he'll not mind a bit. But there's something I want to ask your help with."

Sam sat up straight, his legs sticking out before him on the adult-sized chair. Mr. Bilbo wanted _his_ help? Sam's eyes shone. He forgot all about being nervous, and wriggled, eager to hear what he was to do.

"It's not his fault he's grown up a bit wild in that warren of Brandy Hall," Bilbo continued, fingers fumbling the candlesnuffer, which clanged against the chill marble mantel. With a grimace, he let it lie. Clasping and unclasping his hands before him, he turned to Sam. "I expect he'll set this old place by its ears. But he…he _is_ a good lad at heart, Samwise. Will you remember that?"

Bilbo was looking at him with entreaty in his faded blue eyes. Sam nodded, ready and willing to do whatever the master wanted.

Then they both jumped as a shrill whistle split the air.

"Oh lord, I forgot about that blasted tea kettle. No, no, stay there, lad. I have it." Bilbo scurried out of the room, almost as if he were relieved at the interruption. Sam could hear the old hobbit bustling about in the kitchen, muttering to himself just as he always did when pulling tea together for a guest. Balked of his engrained duty to help, Sam hung his head and scratched at a dried mud splash on his neatly patched breeches. So Mr. Bilbo was expecting a guest, and from Brandy Hall? But Mr. Bilbo was always having guests. No call that Samwise could see for him to be anxious about this one. Except…Sam frowned. This was the first time Mr. Bilbo had told him especial beforehand, reassuring him, as if this Frodo from Brandy Hall was different somehow.

Hold on a moment there. Frodo? As in Frodo _Baggins?_

Sam gasped and clutched the squishy arms of the chair. That was the lad who'd been whipped within an inch of his life for thieving mushrooms once too often on some Marish farmer's land. Since last market-day week all Hobbiton had been full of the tale, repeated with extra relish because the rascal was Bilbo Baggins' cousin.

And a Bucklander.

He was coming _here?_

Thinking about it, Samwise's eyes grew round. Was the master asking him to… to be friendly with a Brandybuck? _That_ Brandybuck? One who, by Master Bilbo's own words, was as wild as his Gaffer said all those folk over the River were? Sam shivered.

He hadn't ever met a lad from the other side of the River. Out of respect, his Gaffer kept him and his younger sister Marigold close to Number 3 Bagshot Row when the master's kin came visiting. But Sam's older sisters Daisy and May, who lent a hand with the extra laundry and housework during such visits, gossiped a' plenty, and Sam had heard much about the strange talk and strange ways of Mr. Bilbo's relatives from Buckland.

_Riverfolk._ Sam licked dry lips, suddenly nervous. "What…what's Mr. Frodo like, Mr. Bilbo?" he asked when Bilbo returned, carrying the tea tray. What if he were a pansy lad like that other Baggins, that Lotho? Now _that_ were a hobbit Sam had no desire to show around, not even to please Mr. Bilbo.

Bilbo's anxious face suddenly crinkled with mirth. "He's nothing like Lotho Pimple, young Sam!" and Sam flushed to have his thoughts so easily read. "In fact," he cast Sam a mischievous look over the teapot as he poured, "there's _some_ who think him like an Elf!"

Sam drew in a sharp breath, giddy with wonder. "Truly, Mr. Bilbo? Oh, truly?"

Bilbo came closer and whispered in Sam's ear. "That's what Gandalf says."

"Gandalf!" Sam gaped, overcome.

"You'll see for yourself next Wednesday," Bilbo said briskly.

Sam just looked up at him dumbly. His thoughts were a whirl. A _riverhobbit._ A wild _elven_ riverhobbit from Buckland. Mr. Bilbo's splendid currant scones might well have been dust for all Sam tasted them. Sam soon found himself outside in the sunny flower garden with no idea how he'd got there. He shook himself. If he kept this up, he'd be pulling out the lilies and mulching the dandelions, and his Dad would clout him proper for daydreaming.

Sam froze. His Dad. Oh dear. The Gaffer wouldn't like this notion of Mr. Bilbo's at all. Sam continued home, his heart heavy.

Mr. Bilbo wasted no time getting around the Gaffer. Sam didn't hear their conversation, but he knew about it after it happened. Sam was in the kitchen garden, trying to keep his mind off the upcoming Wednesday by forking the earth around the tomatoes, when he realized grey-furred feet were standing in the loam before his nose. Sam didn't know how long they'd been there. He looked up, squinting against the sun, to see his father's bent form looming over him.

"Come boy!" he grunted and turned away. Sam put the grubbing fork inside the tool basket and followed him up the Hill path to Bag End, wiping his hands nervously on his shirtfront. When they reached the edge of the party field, at a spot well known to local couples for a bit of private courting, the older hobbit turned and stared at his son.

"You heed me, son," he growled. "Mister Bilbo has asked for you special day after tomorrow, to help with a young'un who'll be staying with him for a time. He's taken a fancy that you're the one to show this cousin of his the ways of Hobbiton, seeing as he'll be here for a while. Now don't you get all excited, boy!" he snapped. Sam dropped his eyes, but he couldn't fool his father. There was a sigh, and then his father knelt down, with many grimaces as his knees cracked. He gripped Sam at the back of his neck, and pulled him forward.

"We don't need no wild Bucklander ways here in Hobbiton. Especially for you. You've always had a bit of the starstruck, what with the reading and all. You just remember who you are, boy!"

Sam nodded. His father watched him earnestly, then grimaced and straightened. "Ain't a mite of use tellin' you. Go on then." He gestured toward Bag End. "The Master's waiting."

Sam's heart leapt. He darted up the Hill. His father watched him go, his expression both proud and sad.

"What's this cousin of yours like then, Mr. Bilbo?" the Gaffer grated out. The three of them were in Mr. Bilbo's yard. Sam was kneeling among the cabbages at the edge of the kitchen garden and his father was lifting dahlia bulbs near the bench by the front door. Mr. Bilbo was rocking back on his heels on the doorstep, trying not to look down the lane too often. It was Wednesday afternoon and his cousin the Bucklander was late.

Sam felt his father's eye on him. Quietly, Sam pulled grubs off the cabbages and tried hard to pretend deafness. He knew, and so did Master Bilbo know, what his father thought about those riverhobbits. If he'd heard him once he'd heard him a hundred times: _Dragons and elves? Taters and cabbages are for the likes of us, Samwise Gamgee!_ If his father put his foot down, even now… Sam quivered, relief warring with fear.

Bilbo tamped the pipeweed in the pipe bowl down with an ink-stained forefinger. Holding a lit match to the pipe bowl, he puffed in short strong breaths that brought the flakes of Old Toby to a steady glow. He wasn't looking at the Gaffer.

"Well now," he said absently around the pipestem. He tilted his head back to watch a long-winged bird circle lazily above them. Fragrant smoke curled up round his ears. The Gaffer leaned on his spade and waited.

"There's not much to him. As tall and scrawny as your scarecrow here." Bilbo indicated the floppy-armed manikin watching over the vegetable marrows. Over the long summer, nest-building birds had thieved the straw from its once-ample belly and it now showed a pitiful spareness about its middle. Sam put a hand over his mouth to hold in a giggle. If Mr. Frodo truly looked like that—He caught a wink from Mr. Bilbo, and ducked his head down.

"It'll take more than a bundle of straw to add good hobbit girth to the lad's beltline. I'll be relying on you, Gaffer old friend, and young Sam here of course, to supply me with plenty of fine taters to fill him out to a proper Baggins." He smirked and patted his crimson waistcoat, its brass buttons gleaming proudly on its broad expanse. "I'd make two of him."

A distant clatter made them all start. Mr. Bilbo looked up, relief coursing over his face. He excused himself and trotted down the path to the gate, ready to greet the tardy arrivals. The cart couldn't yet be seen past the riot of delphiniums, daisies, and roses all over the front yard's fence. Mr. Bilbo himself soon disappeared behind an array of hollyhocks. Sam stood, and swallowed, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach.

Finally he would meet this wild Brandybuck. Together he and his father moved slowly to join Mr. Bilbo, not putting themselves forward of course, although Sam craned his neck and stretched high on his toes to catch the first glimpse of the cart and its passengers.

Never in his wildest dreams did he expect what he saw. Or heard.

The racket was astonishing. They heard it long before they saw anything. The Widow Rumble's few sheep grazing just below the lane lifted their woolly heads to gaze foolishly at the source of the noise. It sounded like a…well, Sam didn't know WHAT it sounded like, but it weren't anything like what he expected a gentlehobbit's carriage to sound like. There was squawking and oinking and quacking and squealing – and above all delighted laughter. Bilbo frowned and opened the gate, ready to wave the peculiar cart along and keep the lane free for his cousin's arrival. Then he stopped.

Cresting the rise was a wagon. On the driver's seat was the usual driver, Mr. Grassroots, but next to him was…Sam rubbed his eyes. A goose? No. Yes. Well, there was a goose, but there was also a tall lanky dark-haired tween. His fine clothes were completely wet and covered in mud and feathers. The goose he held kept nipping at his ear, but he just twisted away and continued chatting with one of the hobbits crowded into the wagon behind him. They were all holding a variety of barnyard animals and were crammed in among trunks, crates, boxes and baskets. A second wagon lurched into view. It was empty. It listed badly on what was evidently a cracked axle and a hobbit was leading the pony hitched to it.

The lead wagon's driver caught sight of the welcoming party, and nudged the boy, who twisted forward. Grinning, he handed the goose to the startled driver, and sprang off the wagon into his cousin's arms. Bilbo's face was a picture.

"Sorry we're late, Uncle," the tween chattered, "but we couldn't just pass on by. Mr. Grassroots here had to stay with the ponies, but with Tom and Onco's help we got the wagon righted. No one can swim around here, it seems, so I caught the ducks and the geese, and since I was already wet I got the piglets too."

"So I see." Bilbo surveyed the mud, feathers and straw that coated his nephew's shirt, and now his own. He started to brush at it, realized it would make matters worse, and stopped. The wagonmaster chortled. The children giggled. Bilbo turned the boy to face the poker-faced senior Gamgee and his dumbfounded son and said in a resigned voice, "Hamfast, young Samwise, this is my cousin Frodo Baggins. Frodo, these are my gardeners, the Gamgees."

The lad named Frodo bowed low to Sam's father, who touched his gnarled fingers to his cap jerkily in response. "An honor to meet you, sir," the boy said. Then he looked down at Samwise and his face lit up. "I'm so glad to meet you, Samwise Gamgee!" he said, holding out his hand. Sam gaped at him until his father nudged him. Wiping his hand on his shirt, he took the offered hand gingerly. Frodo clasped it and shook it heartily, grinning.

"You remind me of my cousin Merry." Still gripping his hand firmly, Frodo leaned over and whispered in his ear. "We're going to have such fun, Sam!"

Sam gulped, and met the Brandybuck's brilliant eyes, which were full of laughter. He felt their warmth fill him from top to toe, and suddenly, he grinned right back.

Yes, he might be one of those riverfolk his father warned him about, a reckless, wild Brandybuck who would set placid Hobbiton by its ears. But with Frodo's gaze warm on him and his hand strong in his, Samwise knew for a fact that he wouldn't trade this moment of magic for generations of down-to-earth hobbitsense.

-end-


End file.
